Equal to the Sons of Heav'n
by Silent Nacht
Summary: Sequel to Eternal Providence. He is eleven years old, and in his master's mind that makes him something akin to grown. Answers hang on the event horizon, and he will do anything to reach them. AU. Dark Harry.


Details/Notes: I started writing this only a couple days after I finished and posted its predecessor, Eternal Providence, which you should absolutely read before starting this. It's basically a continuation, though it skips several years time-wise. The idea wouldn't leave me alone, and still won't leave me alone, so expect more of this series in some form or another at some point. Disclaimer is on my profile. All remaining mistakes are mine. Reviews of all kinds are appreciated.

* * *

_Equal to the Sons of Heav'n:_

_Space may produce new worlds; whereof so rife__  
There went a fame in Heav'n that he ere long__  
Intended to create, and therein plant__  
A generation, whom his choice regard  
Should favour equal to the sons of Heav'n:_

_Paradise Lost, book i, line 650-654_

* * *

It was the thirty-first day of the sixth month of the year, and so he was found resting on his knees at the feet of his master; so close that the spill of their robes mixed in the dim light of the room, creating a frightening illusion of intimacy.

He would have laughed at the thought, were he alone.

"Do you know what day it is, my young servant?" his master asked, in a tone he had long interpreted to mean his master was feeling entertained by the thought of him.

"The date of my birth. Eleven years ago," he said.

He might have replied saying it was _his_ birthday, but that implied the kind of ownership that his master detested seeing in other people. In the past year he had learned with quickly trained efficiency that his master was becoming more fretful as to his presence in the compound, more conflicted as to just what he was supposed to be.

It made him wonder, within the relative safety of his thoughts whenever his master could not see him, how important he was, just what had happened before he came here.

What was his name?

He hated having questions that he could not voice, and that could not be answered by the books he devoured as soon as he was allowed.

His master spoke, drawing him out of his faint inattention, "Yes, and today is the day you would have received a letter, from an important school, in our world."

He felt the laughter more than he heard it, the sound trickling down his spine like a bath of ice water. He held his composure as best he could, swallowing hard. "Hogwarts," he breathed carefully.

"Hogwarts. That wretched disaster Albus Dumbledore is so fond of," he paused, maddened eyes seeking out those of his charge's, making contact and pressing the point home, "You won't have the luxury of such trivial, childish pursuits.

"Tonight you will attend the meeting."

He went all the more still at the pronouncement, knowing he heard correctly, and yet unable to intone the proper reply. He felt in the depths of his soul an emotion nearly completely foreign to him: he was afraid for the first time since childhood.

"I accept your will for me, master," he finally managed to speak.

His master laughed once more. "How perfect you have turned out to be," he said, only his eyes giving away his true lack of affection.

"I serve perfection itself. I serve you." He felt his voice die as spidery fingers laced themselves along his neck, up his cheek, into his hair which was, as ever, nothing more than an unruly ink stain upon his head. His stomach churned with disgust.

"Flattery is a dangerous path to take through life," he was told, his master's voice growing chill. The pain was sharp when it came, nails digging into his scalp enough to draw crescents of blood.

His master drew back his hand, staring at the blood with distaste. "In two hours exactly you will cloak yourself and wait in the antechamber."

He didn't need the threat of punishment that he knew his master gave to more foolish men, and his internal clock – the need to keep perfect order of the few things he could control – would take care of marking time. He bowed his head almost to the ground.

"My life is yours." His master acknowledged the words with a twisted smile, sweeping himself from the room, missing the barely whispered continuation, "Your death shall be mine."

He picked himself from the floor with a combination of practice and the ease of his lithe, young form. He was eleven years old today, and in the mind of his master, apparently that made him an adult. Enough of one to be treated to the a full meeting, instead of the vestiges of screams he always heard from his room.

The room he had been given, were he talking to his master, but now in his relative privacy the possessive pronouns crept into his internal monologue.

Mine, mine, _mine_.

He couldn't get enough of thinking that word. It felt even better to speak it, but the fear of it becoming an irreversible habit was enough to quell the longing.

He had so little time to himself these days.

It was the evidence of the rapid pickup of his training, as it were; learning to speak and perform the curses he filled his previous days reading of.

It had been a strange experience the first time he had been blindfolded and marched between two men who were followers of his master to a utterly blank room twice as big as his own. His fingers twitched around an invisible wand, remembering the feeling of holding one that first time, feeling the life and power and raw energy of the thing.

He shot off sparks immediately, moving on to levitation, and then banishment, summoning, an arsenal of charms that made his head reel.

In the comfort of his bed that evening, he lay awake unable to sleep as he moaned with the pleasure of the power he channelled. He knew then and there, he was powerful, he would be dangerous, and if he did anything with that power, it would be killing the one he called his master.

He screamed the second time, when the wand was wrenched from his grasp. It earned him the pain spell, the one that was hissed through the teeth and always spoken with vindictive pleasure. He had not protested again, but he felt like it every time he was torn away from the catalyst of his power.

He brushed invisible flecks of dust from his black robes as he moved about his room. All he had were his thoughts, and they nearly drove him to insanity.

Again he would recall memories of his time in the compound, and again he would come to the depressing conclusion that most of them could be overlaid on top of each other without cause for concern. Most of it was indeed this: pacing and thinking and so many circles.

He longed now for the surface. He longed to run fast downhill as to feel like flying, to see sunshine, to hear something other than screams.

His throat burned suddenly, and his thoughts receded with the strange feeling.

It was time to fetch his cloak.

* * *

"I'm being called," he said sharply through the fireplace, drawing the Headmaster's attention away from whatever business matter he was currently dealing with, he bit his tongue to control the pain burning up his arm and into his heart, continuing, "I don't know why, or when I'll be back."

"Be careful, Severus," the Headmaster admonished, as he had every time Severus was called in the twelve years he had worked as a spy for him.

He thought it unfair that Dumbledore could continue to sound so sincere. He scowled. "There's nothing safe about what I'm doing. Someday, I _won't_ come back."

He knew it was a childish insult, and that the pleasure he received from seeing the shock and sadness on Dumbledore's face was equally childish, not to mention twice as dangerous. Deriving pleasure from any sort of pain was something he should avoid.

"I have to go," he choked bitterly around the pain, some desperate part of him hoping the Headmaster saw his words as an apology.

He withdrew himself from the fire, and redressed himself as quickly as possible, knowing he stalled too long as it was. His final act before he swept himself from the dungeons was to slip a bone white mask into the inner folds of his robes, and tighten his grip on his wand.

Buried in his subconscious there was a lingering fear that something about the call tonight wasn't right. The Dark Lord did not spontaneously call them without reason, and those reasons were never ones he wanted to hear.

He wasn't the last to apparate into the great chamber that served their larger meetings. The gaps in the circles stood out sharply in the seas of black and white.

His place was in the foremost tier. He earned it after the prophecy, and kept it through his activities as a spy. He was smart enough to realise that the Dark Lord didn't trust him in the least, and kept him close strictly to observe him.

He had once feared that observation over all things, but Severus was tired now. He wanted the war to end, but should he die before he saw the end of it, he supposed there could be worse things. Continuing to live this hell of a life under a myriad of masters was one of them.

Lily was the only reason he persevered now. She gave her life to the cause.

She deserved to be avenged.

He listened to the faint whispers around him, but he never joined them. He was silent as the grave, waiting for the Dark Lord to grace them with his presence. He heard Lucius' low baritone from three places down the line, and Bellatrix's insane cackle, and felt a brief flare of anger well up in his mind.

How could they be so carefree when they knew what was potentially waiting on the other side of that door? He strangled the thought ruthlessly, letting no emotion pass over his face. He was tired, and that meant he was slipping.

He retreated into his mind, cutting off all ties with the emotional world, feeling the soothing wash of blankness surge over him.

It was barely a minute before the doors to the chamber swung open magically, and the Dark Lord swept through. His robes were long, more extravagant than usual, his face was twisted into a sickening caricature of pleasure.

Severus sunk to his knees with the others.

"Rise, my loyal companions, and see the world as if through my eyes," the Dark Lord greeted them, taking his place in the centre of the room, and spreading both pale hands expansively as a host would to his guests.

Severus caught only the fall of his hands from the air as he stood once more, and then his attention was forcibly held by the small figure still kneeling demurely at the Dark Lord's side.

A child.

His heart seemed to still its beating as his mind ran in circles searching for a rational answer. Surely they would not be expected to harm a _child_ for Merlin's sake!

But the boy was dressed as they were, in miniature Death Eaters' robes and cloak, hood shielding his face, and looking the perfect picture of a Dark Lord's follower. Around him he heard the whispers start up abruptly, though there were some like him who remained silent, frozen.

The child was frozen as well.

He barely seemed to breathe, let alone move. Severus felt he was one of the only ones who saw this as the strangest thing about him. Small children were not meant to be still. Not even the best of his Slytherins could sit so still.

He wondered sharply who this boy was.

The Dark Lord, however, was not ready to answer their questions. "Mulch, your report on international affairs," he said coldly.

Severus' attention was drawn away from the boy as someone from the third ring stumbled forward to give his report. (There were only three tiers at this meeting, he noted. The rest were not yet trusted with something. Something Severus was willing to bet was the child.)

He paid careful attention to Mulch, and then to Anderson and Reece.

Mulch was making great progress with the French ministry. They wanted to avoid all-out war, and some of the Dark Lord's ideals appealed to the higher ups.

They also lacked a strong magical leader like Dumbledore to keep the beaucrates in line.

Anderson and Reece were charged with infiltrating the aurors. Anderson was favoured by their lord, and was moving up rapidly in the ranks, with Reece mostly riding his coattails. Severus felt somewhat sorry for the boy. He was sure he had been forced into the Death Eaters by his older brother.

The infiltration was going well, despite huge setbacks caused by Dumbledore's people. Anderson ranted at length about Black, and how the mangy cur managed to block his requests for promotion time and time again.

Severus suppressed a wince as Anderson's lazy tongue earned him a brief touch of the Cruciatus. He shifted from sympathy to curiosity as he noticed the boy at the Dark Lord's side.

The boy's attention had been caught by Anderson's screams, and his head turned to watch him being cursed, even as his body remained still. It was then that Severus glimpsed a thin face with sharp features and inky hair, setting of a twinge of déjà vu.

He let out a silent breath, as close as he could get to the questions he wanted to ask.

His attention wasn't the only one that had strayed to the boy. He could feel the whispers and shifting around him, amplified by the arena they were contained in.

The Dark Lord paused as well, and the room went deadly quiet. Anderson picked himself up from the floor and retreated back to his place in the circle. The Dark Lord's expression shifted into sadistic excitement that made Severus want to scream.

"I see there is no distracting you from our... special _guest_," he said, words hissing together, and mixing with his terrifying laughter.

The boy didn't move, even as all eyes took him in.

"Rise, child," the Dark Lord ordered, and the boy obeyed instantly, rising to his feet primly with no help from his hands.

He was as small as Severus expected him to be. About as big as his first year students, but thinner than all of them. A waif of a child.

"Let's call him one of my most successful experiments. Today is the final day for enrolment to Hogwarts School, an establishment that has gifted me with many of you, right under the eyes of the esteemed Dumbledore," the Dark Lord's tone grew dark and mocking, yet somehow fond.

Severus felt his spine straighten, almost of its own accord, at the mention of the Headmaster, and he only felt more uneasy as the Dark Lord continued, "We even have one of the staff members ensnared in our web. Severus, meet your new student."

The boy's chin tilted upwards, and from the confines of his hood Severus could make out dark chips of emerald studying him impassively. The sight sent shivers down his spine, and suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to run as far as he could.

There was something wrong with the boy, that much was certain. Something was broken in him, but he could not tear his gaze away as the Dark Lord gripped the boy by the chin, trailing his fingers over his cheek.

"He will not be swept away to Scotland for his tutoring. Oh no, he is the first of a new generation. Trained in the darkest arts and most powerful magic," the Dark Lord's voice was seductive, and Severus felt the vestiges of that beautiful picture of the world he had first been drawn to tug playfully at his conscience.

"He will serve me unconditionally, after all, he knows nothing else." The Dark Lord pushed back the boy's hood, and brushed at his hair, which was long and untamed. It looked as if it had never been cut. He continued to stare impassively at the darkness around him.

"Bellatrix," the Dark Lord turned his attention to the crazed woman, disgorging himself from the boy.

"Oh, master! Where did you find such a beautiful creature?"

"Bellatrix," he repeated, his tone sharper.

"May I, milord?" she asked, and shrieked with happiness as the Dark Lord waved his accent. She had soon drawn the boy to her side, cooing over him and playing with his robes and hair.

He did not speak at any of this. Severus began to wonder if the power had been relieved of him for anything other than spell work. It was just what the Dark Lord needed; a race of humans unable to speak anything he didn't want them to.

He missed the first few minutes of the Dark Lord's questions of Lucius and the Wizengamot. It was the same as it had been for months, Severus knew without even thinking. Dumbledore would be able to sniff out anything untoward before Lucius could even think it.

The man was cunning, but he wasn't smart, and his fear of the Dark Lord and of his own reputation ensured that he would never do much of anything to progress the cause.

Bellatrix continued to coo at the boy throughout this, though Severus could see how closely he was paying attention to his master's actions, and the words of the men that spoke. He wondered if the boy was trained to do so, or if it were some sort of self-preservation.

Perhaps it was just that the boy found it interesting. Severus was loath to see how.

In all, the meeting concluded anticlimactically. People were cursed when they were expected to be, there were no raids planned. It would have been routine had it not been for the child.

And were it not for the call the Dark Lord gave as he ended the meeting, "Severus, Lucius, and my dear Bellatrix. Bring the boy into the antechamber."

Bellatrix was all too happy to comply with the order. Lucius gave Severus an unreadable stare through their masks. He looked away, gesturing for Lucius to precede him, which he did with some apprehension. Bellatrix had taken the boy's hand in hers, and practically dragged him out of the meeting hall.

It was a strange picture, almost too much so for him to handle after the stresses of the night.

"He's such a darling. Such pretty eyes," Bellatrix cackled as they reached their destination. She brushed the boy's hair away from his face, showing him off to him and Lucius.

"Do you have a name, boy?" Lucius asked, regaining his snobbish attitude when he was out of sight of the Dark Lord.

The boy smiled. Severus' stomach turned to ice as he took in the expression; almost as twisted as the Dark Lord's own. Who was this boy?

He still thought he looked familiar. There was something about the shape of his jaw, the glint of his eyes. He stared in dawning horror as his mind pulled up images he had long thought to have repressed. Lily Evans glowed out of the boy.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he told himself as firmly as possible that there was no proof. His eyes were green, but so were many peoples'. His jaw line, and hair, and the tilt of his chin were harder to ignore.

The boy continued to smirk, finally saying, "I'm sure I did at some point."

Lucius appeared troubled by the answer, and truthfully so was he. Bellatrix merely made more obnoxious cooing sounds.

"Our master shall name him. He should have a name befitting his station," she said with a strange giggle. The boy stared at her coldly, before his attention riveted to the entranceway, and he fell to his knees at the sight of the Dark Lord.

Lucius and Severus bowed their heads, and Bellatrix dropped to her knees dramatically, kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robes as he came to a stop before their strange group.

"Rise," he said, his tone more careless than Severus heard in months.

Bellatrix got to her feet, staring at the man as if she were a loyal puppy. Something she shared with her cousin, Severus thought snidely.

"Thank you," the boy acknowledged as he got to his feet nimbly. Severus was beginning to realise with dread that it was because he was accustomed to the action that he was so good at it. "I found the meeting enlightening."

The Dark Lord turned to the boy. "Flattery."

As though it were a private joke, the boy smiled towards the ground, dipping his head in a half-bow.

"If I may ask, milord, who is this child?" Lucius said, practically daring his master to curse him.

The Dark Lord seemed to think carefully. "He is exactly as I said in the meeting, dear Lucius. He is the next generation of our great dynasty. He will be one of my most powerful followers."

Lucius nodded.

Severus thought it his turn to speak, "He is the son of one of our causes victims, I presume?"

"Why, Severus, does he seem familiar to you?" The Dark Lord bore into his gaze, and Severus met it with cold assurance in his own abilities. The contact was dropped eventually without mention, and the Dark Lord continued, "Yes. Though he belongs to us now, isn't that right?"

"I am yours, master," the boy replied.

"Why entrust us, your humble followers, with so great a secret, milord?" Lucius questioned, which was just as well, as it meant Severus didn't have to enquire about it.

"The time was fitting, Lucius. The boy is ready to begin his proper education. Charms," his gaze flicked to Bellatrix, "Potions," Severus met his gaze once more, "Politics and society," he ended on Lucius.

"We will be honoured to train him in such things. Such a delight, so young. Innocent," Bellatrix crooned. The boy smirked again, as if to challenge her words.

"Bellatrix speaks the truth. However, I have my obligations..." Severus trailed off.

Truthfully, he wanted to be in the presence of this boy about as much as he wanted to decapitate himself with a rusted fork. But he could not deny his master.

The Dark Lord continued for him, "Ah yes, your obligations. Surely, Severus, the training of one of our own precedes any _obligations_ you may have to my greatest enemy. However, you will continue your post, and your spying activities.

"Consider this," he said after a pause, "A hobby."

"What shall we call him, milord?" Lucius asked.

"A man as smart as you should be able to could up with something," with that parting shot the Dark Lord swept from the antechamber, leaving them in the care of the strange boy once again.

He tilted his head, as though listening for something that wasn't there. "It has been my pleasure to meet you. Thank you for your kindness," he said, his light voice barely rising over a whisper.

Severus watched in shock as he exited the room in much the same way as the Dark Lord. He turned after several seconds to find Bellatrix caught in her own ramblings, and Lucius gazing at him with a mirrored expression of curiosity and hesitance.

"That was certainly unexpected," Lucius acknowledged to him.

Severus nodded. "Indeed. It is late, and I must return to that blasted castle."

"Don't get yourself caught now, Severus," Lucius called to him mockingly, just before he managed to disapparate to the edge of the wards around Hogwarts.

He swallowed heavily, tearing his mask away from his face and scrubbing his stained fingers through his hair, finally allowing his body to give into despair as tremors overtook him.

* * *

It was late into the night around the table at Grimmauld Place, and there were many gathered there who would rather be in bed sleeping, allowing their worries to drift away in favour of dreams. However, for these men and women it was impossible.

Voldemort and the threat he represented loomed over them all. To some there the fact that they were awake was a blessing, for sleep did not come easy to them, and even the realm of dreams was infected with murder and guilt.

Remus stared across the table at his best friend of twenty years; it seemed as if lately Sirius was being hit hardest of all by the war. He knew that the man's job was in danger with every stubborn refusal to budge on policy he gave.

The Ministry was becoming overrun, just as Severus had predicted it would be three years ago. Voldemort's forces were even ahead of schedule, slipping into the ranks easily, and working their way up steadily, in ways that made them the favoured sons of their departments.

Even the Minister himself was beginning to hold doubts as to how truly threatening Voldemort was.

The only people that realised the true devastation of the war were in this room with him. He sighed, folding and unfolding his arms against his chest. He felt restless, as he always did the nights leading up to the full moon. Bill, the eldest of the Weasley children, was giving a report on the goblins, but Remus could not bear to listen.

He reached out and touched Sirius' shoulder to stir him from his stupor, sharing a look of sympathy with him. He then looked up the table at Dumbledore, who seemed to deflate.

"Bill, thank you, perhaps we should all take a short break before reconvening," Dumbledore addressed them all. Remus almost sighed himself at the looks of relief on many of the faces.

They might have been able to leave had it not been for Severus, whom Dumbledore had informed them all had been called earlier in the evening. They needed to hear his report as soon as possible, just in case there was something of deadly importance.

Remus steered Sirius out of the kitchen and into the parlour above. "Do you want to go home, Padfoot?" he asked quietly, knowing it was hardly possible.

"I should be asking you that, Remus! It's barely three days until the moon's full; you should be resting," Sirius admonished him in return.

Remus could feel his eyes lock with the grey gaze of his best friend. Sirius sighed, and dropped his head down onto Remus' shoulder. "I'm so fucking sick of going to work every day, Moony. I have to fight everyone there on every little issue."

He let go of Sirius' shoulders as the man pulled away, beginning to pace heavily back and forth across the room. "Remember a couple years ago, when I was one of the most well-respected aurors on the force?" He didn't wait for an answer that was obvious. They all longed for those days. "Now they think I'm insane. One too many missions, should be retired. Again, and again, and again!"

"They're scared, Padfoot," Remus explained, knowing it hardly helped, "So they're squeezing their eyes shut and running headlong into the arms of the enemy, hoping it will turn itself around."

"It won't if they don't do anything about it!" Sirius shouted petulantly. Remus had heard that tone so much over the years, since Sirius was eleven years old and complaining about having to go home for Christmas. It sounded strange when pieced together with such sombre issues.

"That's why we're doing this. Staying up all hours of the night. Protecting the innocent," Remus forced a smile, which Sirius returned, equally forced.

"We're a sorry bunch, aren't we?"

"A werewolf and an insane auror? Sounds like a pair to me," Remus replied, mussing Sirius' long hair.

Sirius barked out a laugh, grabbing Remus in a tight hug that threatened to lift him off the floor. "Come on," he said, spirits momentarily swelled, "We should get back down there."

"Yes, we should," Remus agreed, taking him by the arm.

Sirius stiffened briefly, and then tugged Remus out of the room with vigour. "I felt the wards trip on the fireplace. It's most likely Snape."

He swallowed, and gripped Sirius' arm, and together they were racing for the kitchen, getting there in time to see Severus stumble out of the fireplace, waving off questions as he moved to his customary place in the corner of the room behind the Headmaster's seat.

Dumbledore shortly called the meeting back to order, with Remus slipping through the crowd to gain a place at the table, this time with Sirius standing behind him.

"Severus, are you in good health?" Dumbledore asked kindly, turning his gaze to the dark, young man.

Remus noted the drawn look on Severus' face. How shuttered his dark gaze was when he turned it upon them all. It made his shoulders tighten in preparation for awful news.

He began his report as he did most of the others. His note was clipped and occasionally derisive, but Remus thought he could feel a whisper of apprehension, and even fear, in his voice. Dumbledore and Sirius obviously came to the same conclusion, both looking concerned, although their reasons were most certainly different.

"Merlin," Sirius swore when Severus described how much progress had been made with the French government. Pairs of eyes turned to stare at him, demanding an explanation.

"International Cooperation is spearheading a _mutually beneficial_ agreement with the French that would have them sending us aurors to help with what they're calling our civil unrest," Sirius cursed several more times, gesturing angrily at Severus as he finished, "With what he's telling us, they'll all be Death Eater sympathizers."

"Well spotted, Black," Severus sneered, "He wants to drive you, and every other good spirited auror out of the department. But especially you."

He smirked, and Sirius growled low in his throat.

"Let it lie," Remus told him firmly.

Severus glared sharply at him before he continued to summarize the rest of the nights happenings. Dumbledore called on a few other people to try to waylay Voldemort's plans, but ultimately decided to end the meeting with Severus' report, and the knowledge that he was safe.

Dumbledore waved them all off sombrely, but with some nature of cheer. Before he could leave however, Severus stopped him.

"Black, Lupin. We need to talk."

He gave a cursory glance in Sirius' direction, trying to gauge how he was taking it. Sirius had withdrawn into himself once again, and that almost made Remus wish he were shouting. He nodded, and followed Severus upstairs to the parlour, noticing that Dumbledore trailed after them.

It made him nervous.

"I left something out of my report tonight. _They_," he waved a derogatory hand toward the door, "do not need to know."

"What is it, dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, settling into an armchair. Remus quickly joined him, but Sirius and Severus both remained standing.

"The Dark Lord introduced us to a... rather alarming follower. Tonight, he..." Severus trailed off again, appearing unsure of both himself and his words, something Remus had witnessed only rarely since they were teenagers. "It was a child," he finally concluded.

Sirius' reaction was quick and deadly, "Who was it?"

Everything in the room froze. Remus could feel no time passing, and even with his sharp hearing nothing penetrated the silence. Severus dropped his head into his hands, and Sirius made a noise of distress.

After untold minutes, Severus spoke only one word. It was all he needed. "Lily."

"No," Sirius denied sharply, before it trailed off into a moan.

Dumbledore seemed to age ten years in as many seconds, and Remus felt the world begin to grow black and fuzzy. He drew a sharp breath.

"Not Harry, please Severus, tell me it wasn't him," Dumbledore said, his voice soft.

"He had Lily's eyes, her chin, the line of her jaw. It was like looking at a ghost," the young man replied shakily, and Remus felt his eyes sting.

Sirius spun on his heel abruptly, slamming his fist into the wall. He cursed vehemently, before that too trailed off into soft sounds of pain that made Remus' heart want to burst in his chest.

"We have to get him back! We have to do _something_... Fuck!" Sirius ranted.

Severus remained silent.

"What did he look like? Oh, Merlin. What have they done to him?" Sirius' breath was heavy. "What has that son of a _bitch_ done to my godson?!"

"He doesn't even know his name," Severus finally said, barely above a whisper, continuing as Sirius screamed and cursed, "He was dressed as we were, he kneeled when we did. The Dark Lord touched him with seeming affection."

Remus felt each word as though it were a stab at his chest. Merlin knew what Sirius was going through. Sirius who thought he had saved the boy's life by begging James to switch secret keepers, protecting him by leading the danger away.

He closed that train of thought. None of them could have guessed they would be betrayed.

Severus continued, though the labour of speaking the truth visibly tore at him. Remus braced himself for the memories, but it did little to help. Lily and her best friend for so long, ripped to shreds by this awful war. James and Lily's wedding. Harry's birth. Sirius' joy at holding his tiny godson for the first time.

"He spoke..." Severus' voice died, and he tried again, "He reminded me of how I speak around the Dark Lord. Always careful that with one wrong word..."

His voice seemed to die again, but he hardly had to finish. Dumbledore stood from his chair, and carefully laid a hand on Severus' shoulder, watching the man struggle to keep his composure, guiding him into the chair across from Remus'.

"Is there nothing you can do for the boy, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, softly and with such kindness in his voice that Remus felt he might choke on it.

"I'm supposed to teach him, but." He choked. "I confess I want nothing to do with him. It was horrible to see him there. To see her son there."

"How can you say that?" Sirius exploded, flinging his arms out expansively. "He's James and Lily's _son_. The only thing that's left of them!"

"No," Severus replied, suddenly cold and fierce. An icy storm that had been building with every word he spoke. "That was _not_ her son. Her son _died_ to make that, that _thing_ of the Dark Lord's."

"He's only a child! It's his eleventh birthday. If we got him away from there maybe we could –"

"What? Save him? Are you saying we should risk our only source of information in the hopes that the boy isn't so far gone as all that," Severus stood abruptly, facing off against his schoolboy rival. "Harry is dead, Black. This doesn't change that."

Sirius' breathing continued to labour. "Then why the fuck did you tell me? You knew what this would do to me!"

"You deserved to know."

Severus stalked from the room, though it was distinctly less impressive, considering the congealed quality of his voice and the way his steps faltered as he reached the door.

Sirius crumpled to the ground, his red robes spilling around him, and Remus thoughtlessly joined him there, sliding from his chair to embrace him. After Merlin knew how many minutes of holding each other, Remus felt Dumbledore's hand rest on his shoulder.

"Take him home, Remus," Dumbledore ordered him, sad but determined, "We shall discuss this as soon as we have all had some rest."

Remus nodded, pulling Sirius to his feet and draping his stagnant form over his shoulders. He managed to make it out the door and past the apparation wards, before apparating them both back to Sirius' flat.

He was too mentally exhausted to do much more than pull off both their shoes before they fell down hard on Sirius' bed. Remus lay awake while Sirius clung to him and sobbed, trying not to hear the sounds, and trying not to think of all the things that had gone wrong since they were teenagers.

Eventually Sirius fell into a fitful sleep, and Remus managed to slip off the edge of the bed, making it as far as the sofa before falling asleep himself.

His dreams were warped and strange, filled with horrific images of an older Harry dressed in the Dark Lord's robes, laughing as he tortured Sirius, and then him, and then Dumbledore; standing on a high cliff as he watched the wizarding world burn around him.

He woke too soon with cold sweat dripping down his forehead.

* * *

In the lowest reaches of the underground base there was never a time when it was warm, to the point where he was physically shocked by the warmth of the surface during his few trips there. He had always been able to tell how much time various servants spent underground based on their reactions to the cold.

He, himself, never noticed it unless in the presence of his master, who seemed to make the very air around him shiver.

New recruits were the worst. They shook themselves to pieces, their breath rising in tendrils from their loose lips. Not that he was allowed to observe those new to the cause on anything like a regular basis. Perhaps they were a danger to him, or perhaps it was the other way around.

The dark woman, Bellatrix, was like him. Or she was like him provided he was entirely bereft of his senses.

He could have been like that, he thought, if he hadn't the ability to adapt. To fit himself seamlessly into this lifestyle his master demanded of him.

He never knew how he did it. The thoughts plagued him during the hours he was left alone. Why haven't I succumb to madness? Why am I able to stare my master in the face, and come away unscathed? Why is it I know him to be a liar above all else?

He couldn't begin to guess, and it had nothing to do with his current point.

Bellatrix was insane, and her mad love protected her from the cold, but her husband was an entirely different creature.

He had known Rodolphus longer than he had known any of them. The man supervised his trips to the surface more often than he didn't, and was often shadowing him on his visits to the library. Rodolphus never spoke to him, but he could tell the man was hanging on his every word when he spoke, laying out his thoughts to the air and his shadow.

They were never particularly dangerous thoughts. He was just glad to be able to speak and have someone listen.

Rodolphus was never obviously uncomfortable while underground, in fact he held himself rather like a tree would, strong and unchanging. The discomfort was only obvious when the man was above ground, on the surface.

He relaxed to a degree that wasn't present in the base. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, and he shivered with relief at the free air and open sky.

Comparing that to his tense composure inside the base, everything was obvious.

He didn't know how he noticed that, either.

He would find out someday, but as it was he was much more intrigued by the man whose presence he was graced with today. He was tall for a wizard, with lank hair and black eyes, but the truly interesting part of him was the brow-beaten nastiness that seemed to cling to his aura.

This was a man that was used to having his hand forced, and hated every minute of it.

His name was Severus Snape, and he was a mudblood, which he found incredibly fascinating. His mother had been of good stock, of course, and he had even read books written by the man's great-grandfather.

He was to be teaching him potions, as per their master's orders.

He had been studying Severus for four minutes now, and had been the subject of Severus' study in return, although the man seemed somewhat loath to look at him. He hid it well.

"Teach me, our lord said," he finally spoke, because he had already come to his conclusions, and wanted something else to happen.

Severus seemed startled by his tone, though again, he hid it well. He scowled deeply, and he thought for a moment he was going to be snapped at. His shoulders tensed in preparation.

After a moment, though, the tension drained from Severus' body, and he said, "As you say. What do you know of the subject, boy?"

His lip quirked before he knew what to do with it. He had been called a variety of endearments, having no name of his own, but never _boy_. It sounded demeaning. He wanted to laugh.

He couldn't without risking punishment, though. Instead, he replied glibly, "I have been studying from books as long as I have been able to read. I've gone through Hogwarts' texts, and those from Durmstang, along with most of the library's personal records. I have no practical experience."

"Very well," Severus showed no sign of surprise at how well read he was, but rather seemed resigned to his fate. "We'll begin with the first year material to give you a feel for brewing."

"After that I imagine things will be accelerated," he filled in on his own.

Now, he was greeted with surprise.

He smiled, happy to have garnered a reaction. It wasn't something he was used to. "Yes," he agreed, "I know what the plans are, at least vaguely. There is no way my master will allow me seven years to learn what I need to know."

He didn't get a reply to that. In fact, Severus merely turned a shoulder, and began to instruct him on the basic principles of preparing ingredients.

Before him on the table were all sorts of magical plants and body parts of animals, waiting to be ground and sliced and brewed into cures and poisons. He found the idea of potions vaguely interesting, but it had nothing on the excitement of wielding a wand.

It was rather like reading, he thought, compared to actually _doing_.

Still, he listened to every word his instructor spoke, and dutifully spent time getting a feel for the small, silver knife, and learned the difference between a chop and a cube, a slice and a julienne. It was tedious work, but, he thought, rewarding once they finally moved to the cauldrons, and began to brew.

Severus didn't talk to him, outside of what he needed to know about what they were doing. He was used to that sort of disregard, though.

At the end of their lesson they had prepared six vials each of a potion that cured boils. His was one degree off in shade, and two of texture, and Severus pursed his lips at it, but declared it passable for someone with no obvious love of the subject.

He replied that it didn't matter what he thought of potions as a whole, so long as he learned them.

He thought Severus might have strangled him, had he been someone else.

It made him want to laugh again. There was something rewarding about being able to stir up anger in a person, and know they couldn't act on it. He supposed he picked that up from his master.

After that, Severus seemed all too eager to rid himself of his presence.

* * *

Severus barely managed to apparate away from the complex before he was once again overtaken by shivering. His hands clenched and shook within his oversized sleeves, and he quickly fell to his knees, being unable to keep to his feet.

To think he thought he knew torture before this.

The boy was nothing like he had expected. Severus had been so sure, that he would be a blank shell with no personality, that he would spit the rhetoric of the Dark Lord, that he wouldn't speak at all.

He wasn't expecting a full-formed person with his own traits and shade of personality.

He was a quiet child, it was true, and much more involved in his thoughts, none of which Severus was able to see, than he was in words or gestures. He did seem just as aware of the Dark Lord as any of the Death Eaters were, but he didn't have the fear and horror that Severus would expect of an eleven year old.

It made him shudder all the more to think of the things that must have been done to him to beat the fear from him.

He was much too mature. A boy who had read most, if not all, the potions texts that the Dark Lord's personal library possessed?

It was unreal.

Severus didn't want to believe it.

He didn't want to go back, either. He didn't want to be faced with those sharp, green eyes, and that wild mass of inky hair that was too long and too lank to resemble James Potter's.

But it was so obvious what his name was.

Harry.

Now that he had spent hours with the boy, watching his movements and actions, and hearing him speak in that light whisper of his, and saw that he hadn't been entirely consumed by the Dark Lord, how could Severus stand back and do nothing?

There had been so many instances where he was forced to. He didn't want this added to the tally.

He felt rather like he was being torn down the middle. Part of himself wanted nothing more than to run away and save himself from this madness the world had turned to, but there was another, greater part which knew he would have to try to get to know the boy, because of his thrice-damned curiosity.

The boy was a mystery, one that Severus was becoming all the more determined to solve.

His knees began to protest the hard ground, and eventually he managed to pick himself up from it, and transfigure his robes back into something passable for normal society, before he made his way back to the school.

It was late at night, but not yet late enough that the halls would be devoid of troublemakers. He wondered, suddenly, if the boy had any sense of time at all, living perpetually in darkness.

Where did he sleep?

Severus shook himself of the questions as he approached the Headmaster's office, and spoke the password. He knew that no matter the late hour, Dumbledore wouldn't rest until Severus had reported to him. He felt a twinge of annoyance at that, not seeing why he should bother caring.

It would only make the pain fester when Severus was finally found out and killed as a spy.

"Headmaster?" he greeted, as he stepped through the door into the gilded office beyond, his eyes sweeping over the golden trinkets and sleeping portraits without really seeing them, after all this time.

"Dear boy, it's good to see you return unharmed," Dumbledore said with a twinkle of blue from behind his spectacles.

"Unharmed may be considered an exaggeration," he replied stiffly.

Dumbledore merely smiled paternally toward him. "Of course. May I offer you tea?"

"Thank you," he said, equally stiffly, before letting the façade drop long enough to collapse into one of the Headmaster's comfortable armchairs.

Dumbledore conjured a tea set, and set about preparing their cups. Severus spent that time staring into space, musing.

He recalled the quiet strength he felt in the boy, the sharp sense of humour. He recalled the first time he saw him at the meeting, and how he watched with calm interest as Death Eaters were tortured.

How could a child possess such qualities?

The answer was obvious, of course, the Dark Lord moulded him into what was required for the cause. And perhaps some quirk of genetics was what allowed him to retain a fraction of his stubbornness, even as he had obviously lost his childhood.

"Severus," the Headmaster chided him quietly, and scowled fiercely at the man.

"This will be the end of me, if nothing else is," he admitted quietly. Dumbledore sighed heavily, and handed him his tea, which Severus sipped quietly.

"How is the boy, Severus?"

"Nothing like I expected," Severus said, almost choking on the wryness in his voice, "He isn't.. He spoke with conviction, he's incredibly well read, he followed every word of the lesson...

"He has a Potter's love of potions."

Dumbledore smiled at him, but it was a hard, painful smile, and Severus half-wished he could take his last words back.

"I saw them both in him," Severus could barely speak. He didn't want to say what he was. "No matter how tamped down by the Dark Lord's teachings."

"Severus. You're saying that there is a chance."

Severus sighed. "I wish I wasn't, but I could hardly lie to you."

"You should always be thankful for a chance to save a child," Dumbledore said sharply.

"Tell me it's possible, Headmaster," he demanded, equally sharp, "How am I supposed to circumvent the Dark Lord when he watches every move I make near the boy."

"Ambition and wit, Severus," he replied, and the twinkle was back.

He scowled into his tea.

"I have faith in you, dear boy." He was forced to look up at that, as he always was. Dumbledore merely continued to gaze at him, displaying the strength of that very faith.

It made him want to shrink into himself and disappear.

* * *

"I was witness to your lessons today," his master told him, lounging in relaxation against the soft cushions of one of the library's armchairs.

He looked all the more human today, with his lazy smile and handsome face. Provided he ignored the spidery fingers casually twirling that long, yew wand.

In likeness to his master, he was spread out on the lush carpet with a book below him, his chin propped on his elbows. He had moved at first to kneel, but was stopped with a compulsion curses, and a word professing his master's interest to keep this meeting light.

He said this, of course, with an unmatched sense of irony.

"I thought the way you spoke to Severus was intriguing. Tell me, are you always so insolent?" His master's eyes narrowed, and his own shoulders stiffened at the accusation.

He turned to stare into his master's eyes, knowing that it would be expected at such a time, even though he wished firmly to sink into the floor and leave this place behind.

His action were insolent, then? He hadn't thought of it that way at the time, but then again, he was practically drunk on the idea of speaking with another human, and that influenced his actions.

"Of course not, master," he replied after a time to think about the consequences of various responses, "Truly, I was intrigued by my lessons. I acted rashly?"

"Yes," he was replied, "Though not unduly so."

"Being graced by your presence has caused me to become egotistical?" he asked, honestly interested in what the answer might be.

These sort of meetings in the library where he wasn't expected to be completely subservient were few and far between throughout most of his life, but now that he was being truly taught magic they became more and more common.

He wondered what, exactly, his master had in store for his future, and what impact that might have on his own actions.

If he were going to kill this man, he needed more information.

He would have scowled if he could, because it always seemed to come down to that, and after years of searching for answers he was still empty-handed.

His master laughed, causing him to pay attention once more. "That is one way of putting it. My child, you are truly my greatest creation to date."

He smiled, and nodded. "I am yours to direct."

"In the coming years those directions will be many, and men such as Severus will have nothing on you," his master told him, and he hummed in response, pleasurably. He wanted that power that was offered by his master's tone, more than anything else, because with power came the ability to answer his questions.

"You would kill for me, child? And die for me?"

"Anything you ask of me, you shall receive," he replied dutifully, and it was truthful.

For the moment.

His master smiled sharply. "I want you at the next meeting. This time, you'll find a present waiting for you."

He felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. "I'll be allowed a wand?"

"It would be difficult to kill the man without one."

He lowered his head respectfully to hide the pleased smile that threatened to snap his muscles. This would be more of a test than even his master would know, because if he could kill this man his master was offering him, then he was one step closer to his ultimate goal.

His grin only continued to widen as he stared down at the page in front of him, unable to concentrate on anything other than his plans.

It would be a night to remember, truly.

_End._

* * *

End Notes: Thank you for reading, and please, please review.


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